


After the 45

by HyfrydCymru



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Historical, M/M, bedroom politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyfrydCymru/pseuds/HyfrydCymru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1780- Scotland and England strengthen political ties in Hollyrood Palace.<br/>Sometimes it’s easy to forget it’s not them who make the decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the 45

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yombatable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yombatable/gifts).



> Scotland and England have probably met before, under much less (more?) straining circumstances since the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745, but this is most likely the first time they've been completely alone.  
> There's nothing in particular that makes 1780 important for Anglo-Scottish relations but it weights like a good span of time for them both to cool off after everything that's happened between them. 
> 
> Written for Yombatable, who wanted bottom Scotland. I'm so sorry. Enjoy these equally pinning dastards.
> 
> More notes at the end!

There’s a fire burning in the hearth and that’s no wonder. Even in the milder nights of May, the halls of Holyrood are as damp and chilled as Scotland’s weather is through the year, recently even more so. There’s a pot of mulled wine hanging from an iron hook over the fire, heavy and filled to the brim, and for that Alasdair is gladder than he could ever be for a bed of burning coals. He’ll need the grit and, if Arthur’s pale face is anything to go by, he’s not the only one in the need of courage. Alasdair can feel him standing stiffly somewhere behind him, as far away from the fire as he can, even if he can’t see him as he is, leaning on the ledge of the fireplace.

            A heavy weight sits on Scotland’s shoulders and his body still aches with the aftermath of the 45. Part of him still wants to shove England face first into the fire, wants to feel the give of ribs under his boots, wants to blame him and spit every curse he can fashion from _his_ people’s mangled language to his face.

There’s anger burning in his gut hotter than the fire that threatens to scorch his knees, it clouds his mind like gunpowder smoke, and it takes a few deep breaths to force it down enough to notice that the wine is beginning to boil. He has half a mind to snatch a scrap of cloth from the ledge before grabbing the hot handle. The sides of the pot sizzle as the wine sloshes inside and spills down the side when Alasdair lets it drop down onto the table with a clatter and a curse.

            England makes to step towards him and Scotland catches him out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s fine,” Alasdair practically growls at him and almost comes to regret doing so a second later, when Arthur merely nods, so subtly that it’s barely there, and stays put.

It’s unnerving, this new Arthur who came back from the Colonies withdrawn and silent, drained from the wars that he’s fought and dragged from one side to another, civil war and revolts tearing the Empire he’s built apart and hauling Arthur down with it. It barely warrants Scotland _’_ s pity, but Alasdair understands and he can sympathise where he can’t condole, so he tops the goblets and hands Arthur’s his without another word.

“Cheers,” Arthur accepts the goblet and raises it in a mock toast.

“Slàinte,” Alasdair responds automatically and watches Arthur carefully as he takes a long draw of wine before doing the same himself.

Arthur hadn’t spoken a word throughout the whole evening, sitting through the formalities of dinner and negotiations with an eerie calm that suits him a badly as a red coat does Scotland, now a captain of a _British_ regiment, and there’s only so much that Alasdair can take before he snaps, so he drains his goblet in one go and walks back to the table to keep himself busy. He scalds his tongue in his hurry to numb his thoughts when he hears the sound of fabric sliding against fabric and the heavy weight of Arthur’s frock coat thrown on a nearby chair.

(There is no shame in seeking fortitude in the rich taste of hot wine burning down their throats.)

Despite all, Alasdair can’t help but feel a stab of desire when he turns to face Arthur again. The glow of the fireplace reaches him despite the distance he’s tried to maintain since they bolted the door closed and it colours his hair copper-gold. Even after decades he’s still the same sea-rough sailor that had haunted Alasdair’s dreams the last time they met in this very palace, his frame wiry strong and graceful with the fine posture of authority despite the weariness he catches in his eyes now that they’re alone. Alasdair wants to fist his hands in his hair and bite him hard as badly as he wants to run out the door. He’s not blind to the tension in Arthur’s whole body or the unease in his breathing.

            In the end it’s Arthur who approaches him first, deliberately slow, and pours them both another glass. Alasdair is as quick to deplete it as he has been with the other two and Arthur’s not far behind. The heat of the wine has brought some colour to his cheeks, and there’s only so much that Alasdair can take before he snaps so he does the only thing he can think of.

“For fuck’s sakes, lad,” uncaringly setting his goblet to the side, he takes a rough hold of Arthur’s shoulders. “Say _something._ ”

“Something,” Arthur parrots straight-faced, more a question than a mock.

“Aye, saints be damned, something!”

            It takes Arthur a moment to think of something neutral enough to pacify Alasdair.

“How are your wounds?” if not ideal, it’s the best that Arthur can come up with when Alasdair’s fingers are digging painfully into his own scars, a badly set clavicle and the small nicks at his collarbone.

            Alasdair narrows his eyes but he lets go after a second.

“Better,” there’s another ornate chair by the table and he drops down into it with a grunt. The carved wood digs into his thighs uncomfortably but Arthur’s coat is folded over the other’s cushioned armrest. “So long as they don’t split open during one of your fool-king’s errands,” that, at least, earns him a huff of amusement from Arthur. “Pour us another drink?”

            (Sometimes it’s easy to forget: it’s not them who make the decisions.)

            He does just that, pours them almost the very last of the wine, and paces the room. Hesitates, and keeps pacing like he’s awaiting trial. Alasdair takes to humming to fill in the silence and that seems to do some good for Arthur’s nerves for a while; enough to at least slow him down.

“Sit your arse down, Arthur,” Alasdair’s tries, voice too low to be an order, but Arthur still stops and bristles.

“When you stop fiddling with the wine every five seconds and look less like God’s revenge against murder, I’ll consider it.”

“If I could trust you with a bender, I would,” Scotland straightens from where he’d started to slump in the chair.

            Arthur looks away with an angry click of his tongue. The tension is back in his shoulders but it doesn’t reflect in his voice, which is just as impassive as it was just before their little exchange.

“You were in America.”

“Aye,” Scotland finds no reason to lie.

            (He’d seen everything.)

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting Arthur to do but when he doesn’t reply, he continues lowly.

“I don’t revel in your pain, Arthur,” he’s no less honest now.

            England’s still not facing him and any other time Scotland would let him but it’s getting late and they can only stall for so much. Alasdair stands and comes to still just behind Arthur.

(There’s a thin line between humiliation and comfort with them, and Alasdair’s toeing that line, not for the first time. Scotland in Yorktown, England in Culloden Moor, the first in the side-lines of defeat, always there, at each other’s downfall, to crush and build up again on whatever’s left to save.)

            England swallows a dark oath and his cup clatters to the ground with how fast he turns. Alasdair doesn’t have time to breathe before lips are on his, pressing hot and firm. He lets it happen and gives what Arthur’s asking of him, letting his lips part when Arthur’s tongue sweeps over the corner of his mouth and moving his hands to grip at his hair.

Arthur’s hands work quickly with the brass buttons on Alasdair’s military coat, slowing down only when he reaches the fine linen shirt underneath. He dips his fingers into his trousers, teasing, and pulls his shirt out to ease his hands underneath the fabric. Alasdair makes and ungodly sound at the back of his throat and moves one of his hands away from Arthur’s hair to wrap round his waist.

            They break the frantic kiss slowly. Arthur’s breathing heavily and his eyes are closed, even when Alasdair tips his head back to finds his pulse with the harsh press of his lips. He scrapes his teeth over the line of his neck and nips at his jaw where he can feel the beginnings of stubble scratching against his, until Arthur’s hips rock into his lightly and he sighs.

“Arthur,” Alasdair answers with a thrust of his own and pulls him close enough that he can bury his nose in the crook of his neck despite the slight height difference between them, that shortens with every separation but is still significant enough that Arthur can’t look him straight in the eye without craning his neck. He breathes in the scent of brine and sweat.

            Arthur’s hands go lower and grip at his breeches to keep balanced.

“Alasdair.”

            It’s a fumble to unbutton Alasdair breeches and push down his stockings and it’d be almost hilarious that for once it’s Scotland who’s decked in British finery if they weren’t so aware as to why, if Arthur couldn’t still trace the raised skin on Alasdair’s back.

They’re kissing again, when Alasdair is bare from the waist down and he shrugs off his coat hurriedly, almost chokes trying rip the cravat from around his neck. Arthur’s trousers come next, as do the buttons of Alasdair’s shirt, but when Arthur goes to pull it off his shoulders, Scotland’s hands hold tight as steel around his wrists.

“Don’t,” Alasdair’s voice is tight with a mix of lust and warning but he doesn’t stop kissing Arthur. He pulls him towards him to run his hands down Arthur’s sides one last times, then pushes him roughly onto the bed and clambers between his thighs.

            There’s a vial of oil set on the table at hand’s reach and Alasdair has enough mind to take notice of it before working Arthur’s shirt over his head with a yank and pressing him back down with his knuckles on his collarbone. Arthur’s hands feel too hot against his skin and they’re driving him mad with every circle they trace low on his navel, until they go lower and drag a deep moan from the back of Alasdair’s throat. His forearms are framing Arthur’s head on the mattress and he has to lean all of his weight on one to slip the other underneath him and pull their hips closer again. The angle sets an odd rhythm but it’s more than enough to work them up and have them panting into each other’s mouths harshly after a few frantic presses of slick flesh on flesh.

“Wait, god wait,” Arthur’s voice breaks near the end. “We have to.”

“Aye,” Alasdair has to wet his lips before continuing, holding their hips together but no longer pressing down insistently. “Aye, we do.”

Arthur is running his fingers through his hair almost lovingly as Alasdair warms the oil on his fingers but stops when Scotland nudges his thighs further apart, letting his arms fall on the sheets instead. Alasdair pillows his lips on his forehead and traces over the skin between his legs a few times before pushing two of his fingers in steadily. Arthur clenches his jaw to hold back a pained noise, fails, and Alasdair closes his eyes against it, trying to ignore the clenching of his gut. It’s one thing to want Arthur in pain but another completely to have him grasping the sheets in a white-knuckled grip.

Arthur’s tight, perhaps too much so, and it takes effort to pull his fingers out again even when Alasdair is trying to be as careful as possible. England doesn’t ask him to stop but when he breathes out another subdued “ _fuck_ ” and tries to pull away reflexively, Alasdair makes the choice for both of them.

He stills his hand and presses a kiss to Arthur’s lips as he pulls his fingers out, slowly, wishing to ease some of his discomfort with the gesture.

“Damned stubborn lad,” Alasdair almost wants to smile.

When he pulls away, Arthur follows him upright and glares so Alasdair takes his lips again, even softer than before, and hopes to distract him enough that Arthur will slacken his legs and he can slip from between them to straddle him. He manages just that and uses his new leverage to lay Arthur back down on the bed with a press of his palm on the valley of his hips. He reaches for the oil again and coats his fingers liberally, feeling a blush building up from his neck when Arthur follows his every move with darkened eyes. Arthur’s hand finds his on his hip and he tangles their fingers together.

            Alasdair doesn’t know if he should look away so he is momentarily stuck in between until Arthur squirms underneath him and sits up to kiss him and the decision is made for him. He closes his eyes and reaches behind himself, hisses with the first stretch and curses a bloody storm when he ads a third finger. Arthur hasn’t let go of his hand and he kisses his frown away, reaching between them to grab a hold of their half-hard members and pumping them together until Alasdair is rocking back onto his fingers and into Arthur’s fist with a loud moan.

“A Dhia,” Alasdair’s holding on tight enough to bruise when he pulls his fingers out and uses what’s left of the oil strokes it onto their cocks when England lets go. He drowns Arthur’s moan with a kiss.

            Arthur lets Alasdair’s weight press him down onto the bed again, strong thighs held firmly to the outside of his. There’s raw strength in his every move, from the way he pins Arthur’s hands over his head with one hand to how he raises himself over Arthur’s cock. He lowers himself slowly, holding Arthur steady underneath him until he’s low enough that he can let go, and let himself simply sink down onto his length. It’s a tight fit and they both groan when Alasdair clenches down unwittingly, pained and aroused by the burn of Arthur’s cock as it curves deeper inside him. He doesn’t wait long before shifting his hips and he sets a slow pattern, testing how far he can go before closing his eyes and letting the friction pull him deeper.

Alasdair’s skin is flushed and damp with sweat. His hair sticks to his forehead, shorter than when Arthur last saw him and darker too, burning auburn only in the warm light of the room but almost black in the shadows, the same shade the trail leading down his navel, where his member stands thick and flushed. Arthur watches him move through half lidded eyes and fights the urge to throw his head back when Alasdair picks up the pace. He still can’t move his arms but he does his best to meet Alasdair half way with every roll of his hips. He grits his teeth and almost comes when Alasdair seizes above him with a shout and rides him in earnest now, finding the angle that sends Arthur’s cock brushing against his prostrate with every thrust.

They’re both so close it’s painful when Scotland’s leg cramps and his hold on England’s wrists slackens. Arthur takes the chance to flip them over and relishes in how loudly Alasdair curses his name when slips inside him again with a hard thrust. He bites and sucks on a bruise on Alasdair’s shoulder, blindly reaching for his cock as he builds the pace back up. He finds Alasdair’s hand already, fisting his cock, and he follows his lead until it’s too much and Alasdair cums with a loud curse, short nails biting down on Arthurs hip, where his other hand was resting with a demand of _harder._ Arthur doesn’t think he can last much longer and he doesn’t, cumming just seconds later when Alasdair grips his hair and cranes his neck to his him almost cruelly, all teeth and sharp edges.

They come down slowly and neither break that last kiss until their lungs burn with the need for air and Arthur shifts back, briefly, to pull out from Alasdair’s warm body. If he’s in any way sore, Alasdair doesn’t show it and is content enough to bask in the afterglow where he is, sprawled over the sheets and already dozing off, muscles lax. Arthur lies down besides him with a sigh and makes no move to pull at the sheets either.

“When are you due back at sea?” Alasdair’s question is undemanding.

“Not any time soon,” Arthur’s not speaking any louder than a whisper. “Not soon enough.”

            Alasdair doesn’t comment on how he finds it unlikely that Arthur will be setting foot on a Lugger, let alone a Frigate, with the King’s blessing for the next century. It’s not like doesn’t know it already.

“What comes next, Scotland?”

            _That_ Alasdair doesn’t know, so he doesn’t reply, and Arthur doesn’t insist.

            He isn’t sure for how long he sleeps, but it mustn’t be long. He’s rolled onto his front so he can’t be sure, but he’s vaguely aware, even with his eyes closed, that the remainders of the fire still burn in the hearth. There are soft touches spanning the width of his back, always over the linen of his shirt, tracing a pattern he absentmindedly recognises from centuries ago. He breathes deeply and lets Arthur continue his careful strokes, as best an apology as England can offer for the deep welts on his back.

They’ll heal.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think that Alasdair was at the Battle of Yorktown (my headcanon point of encounter for England and America) and that he witnesses everything that transpired that day. It probably shapes his opinion of Alfred further on but, alas! that is for another time. This is just a bit of pwp (of dubious quality).
> 
> Arthur, on the other hand, probably arrives at Culloden Moor in the aftermath of the battle and vouches for Alasdair (which is not welcome) and lands him in regiment (which is even less welcome), which kinda nods to the creation of the note-worthy Scottish battalions that go on to engross the lines of the British Army. 
> 
> I've never written bottom Scotland. I don't know if this counts as a power-bottom Scotland. But it was fun to play around with their dinamics a bit. Thoughtful bastard.
> 
> A Dhia- Oh God.


End file.
